


do you ponder the manner of things

by umpher



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Steve Rogers, Slow To Update, Tags May Change, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umpher/pseuds/umpher
Summary: Steve Rogers rides into the mountains with only a vague paper trial and cautious hope to guide him.He gets much more than he could have bargained for.[ under construction/on update hiatus ]
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	do you ponder the manner of things

When Steve had ridden into the foothills, a brilliant and somewhat desperate hope that this time, the rumors and reports were true burgeoned his travel-weary body. Four days of treacherous terrain and near death later, the hope had soundly been walloped out of him. His focus had narrowed to following the there-and-gone trail, fending off hungry wolves, keeping himself and his horse alive long enough to reach the promised village. The foothills had grown taller and the nights colder.

The sun was setting on his fourth day of mountain riding and his twentieth day of overall travel when he rounded a bend and came upon a valley. It resembled the star-fishes of the coast, five arms burrowing into the hills around it. Emerald trees gilded gold by the sunset carpeted the floor; from Steve’s vantage point on a ridge, the leaves rippled and flowed like the sea. The wash of orange-and-gold light befuddled his eyes, but he could just spy the warm glow of lamplight nested into the heart of the valley. He nearly wept at the sight—or perhaps it was the wind lashing tears from his exhausted eyes.

Days of navigating narrow gulleys and barren cliffs made coaxing the horse down into the valley an assault on the senses. The forest canopy obscured the sky and fractured the fading light. Steve felt blind in the dappled gloom, and with no clear path to follow, he had to lie over his horse’s neck and guide her with sharp tugs on the reins. She nearly bucked him for the offense, just as unsettled by the change in environs. Brambles clawed at his boots and branches lashed at his back. Several times, huge boulders seemed to appear from thin air in the semidarkness, forcing Steve to swerve out of the way.

As twilight fell, night birds began their warbling songs, and Steve heard the occasional fox’s bark or wolf’s howl. His eyelids grew heavier and his movements clumsier as the horse toiled onward, until finally the dense forest broke apart.

A clearing opened before him, awash in reddish light. A brook babbled cheerily along the western treeline. Along its bank clustered a mill, a smithy, a tavern, and an inn—on the other side of the wide dirt path connecting them stood a schoolhouse and a manor. There were no other homes, but that was no surprise. The farms would be scattered throughout the valley, wherever there was open space enough to keep animals and crops, and connected by roads. Steve felt a flash of bitterness through the haze of exhaustion at the thought that he’d missed every road lacing the valley.

A bright point of light drew his eye to the schoolhouse. Someone, a young man by the look, leaned against the back wall of the little building and blew clouds of thick smoke from a cigar. Steve’s horse wandered over to a thick clump of wild grass to graze, and the movement drew the villager’s attention. The lad gave a cry, threw down and ground out his cigar, and rushed over.

“Hello,” Steve slurred; his tongue felt thick and unwieldy after days of neglect.

The villager spat a clove-yellow glob on the ground. The horse snorted disdainfully. “You’re a long way from home, stranger,” he said, voice laden with mistrust.

“My name is Stithulf Ragnarsson, Knight of the Shield. Everyone calls me Steve. Is this Skapta?”

For a moment, the young man’s face clouded with confusion. Then his eyes widened. “A Shield Knight? You mean—the letters, the reports, they made it?” Steve nodded, and the lad quailed before bolting for the smithy.

Steve watched, bleary-eyed, as the young man went pounding on each door in the clearing and collected a buzzing crowd. The promise of sanctuary, of a real bed and protection from the perilous night, deadened his body until keeping himself upright in the saddle was a struggle. Hand-torches were lit to ward off the gathering dark, and the villagers crossed the open ground to where his horse grazed indifferently. Steve hardly noticed the reins being coaxed from his stiff fingers and his horse being led to the inn. Hands pulled him from the saddle and set him on his feet.

Clinging to the saddle for balance, Steve had a moment to observe the circle of scarred, bearded, and sun-dried faces looking back at him. Their expressions ranged the full spectrum from suspicious, to confused, to hopeful, to relieved. He became suddenly aware of how bedraggled he must look after so long bathing in streams and sleeping on the ground. It was a small mercy when a broad, bearish man elbowed through the crowd with the young man who’d first noticed Steve at his elbow. Steve took him for the innkeeper.

“You,” said the innkeeper. His brow and voice were heavy. “You’re the Shield Knight, Stithulf Ragnarsson?”

Steve nodded. “Everyone calls me Steve,” he repeated, but he was already being herded inside while someone tied up and unsaddled his horse. The inn was spacious and warm, illuminated by a roaring hearthfire. The innkeeper sent the young man, his son, to book Steve’s lodging as he ushered the bone-weary knight upstairs. The scenery passed in a blur; before he knew it, the door to his chamber thumped softly shut behind him.

The room was cool and dark now that night had fallen. Steve shuffled his way to the bed and collapsed onto it. Though the mattress was a mere sack stuffed with straw on a wooden frame, it seemed to embrace his numb limbs more comfortably than the finest down mattress, and the knight was asleep the moment his eyes closed.

Steve was woken just once in the night by an urgent pressure in his bladder and an owl’s lonesome hoot outside his window. He clambered awkwardly from the bed, muscles stiffened by cold, and shooed the massive tawny bird from the sill. Then he groped along the floor until he found the chamberpot in a corner. He stubbed his toe on his saddle in the process; someone had left it at the end of the bed.

The thought that someone had come in his room while he’d been asleep, and he hadn’t woken at the intrusion, was a deeply disturbing one. An inspection of the sides of the door revealed a bolt lock, which he slid into place with relief. Shedding his garments, he slid back into bed and pulled the blankets tight.

He didn’t rouse again until daybreak.


End file.
